


To Be a Hero

by quiet_rebel



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet_rebel/pseuds/quiet_rebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Castle is dead. But that depends on your definition of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I finished season 2 in two days and fell in love with the dynamic between Frank and Karen. I love Matt/Karen too, so it's going to be fun multishipping on this show. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Feedback is fuel.

When it was finally safe for Karen to return to her bullet-ridden apartment, she found the undamaged photo of her, Matt and Foggy at Josie’s on St. Patrick’s Day among the broken furniture and shattered glass. 

The picture had survived. 

Like her.

She remembered the way Frank had thrown himself on top of her, shielding her from the gun fire. He still protected her, even after she had pointed her own gun at him. But who was she kidding? If he had wanted to hurt her, he would have disarmed her in a second. Instead, both of them had walked out of her place unharmed.

Because they were survivors. 

Just like the picture she was holding in her hand, and just like with another picture she had found in another empty home.

Both images showed realities that no longer existed. 

Still, she couldn’t part with her picture. She put the framed memory on a mantle inside her new home in Willamsburg. Thanks to the nice severance paycheck from Nelson and Murdock, she was able to rent a roomy loft away from Hell’s Kitchen.

And that’s where she wanted to be. Away.

Karen spent her days at the _New York Bulletin_ , writing stories at Ben’s old desk. It took days before it finally felt like she actually belonged inside his office. 

Every time the front page featured Daredevil, her stomach knotted, and she returned to the night Matt showed her the red mask with horns. He told her everything. Fisk. Stick. Elektra. The Hand. The Chaste. 

When he was done, her only response was, “You lied to me.”

She walked away from Matt and his alter-ego, telling him she was going to need time. That was four weeks ago. Each moment that passed without him felt like she was being stabbed with a hot rod. Did it have to feel this painful? Was Frank right? Had she been wrong for letting Matt go?

Then, one day, the _Bulletin_ ’s cover story was about a warehouse explosion in Hell’s Kitchen. It belonged to the Irish and whoever was left of them was trying to rebuild their empire, but not if whoever blew up the building—and the people inside—could help it.

New Yorkers quickly started to speculate that the Punisher wasn’t dead. He was back, dealing his own brand of justice among the city’s scum.

“What do you think, Karen?” Ellison asked during a late night writing session at the office. “Do you think the Punisher’s alive?”

She remembered the dark figure with the gun standing on the rooftop, how his bullets had saved Daredevil’s life. 

Matt was alive because of him.

And so was she.

She gave Ellison a weak smile. “They’re just rumors.”

The next morning’s front page was about the dozen or so dead Dogs of Hell from the Detroit chapter who were looking into expanding their territory east. Their bloody bodies were found scattered around Hell’s Kitchen.

“Do you think they’re just rumors now?” Ellison asked her, holding a _Bulletin_ hot off the press.

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she flipped through the issue and found Daredevil—on page five.

That night, Karen returned to her loft, her mind still whirling from the latest story assignment Ellison had given her. 

“Give us your perspective,” he said. “You sat with him through his trial. Only you can tell us if Frank Castle is alive or not.”

She found his answer in her living room. 

When she flipped on the lights, Frank looked up at her from her couch. In front of him, neatly placed on her coffee table, was a nine millimeter handgun. Fresh cuts and purple bruises covered his swollen face. No doubt they were a result from dealing with the Detroit bikers the other night. 

She kept her distance near the front door with her hands around her bag, the can of pepper spray tucked inside. 

After a long agonizing minute, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“I never lost you.” His voice still gruff and weary. 

When she didn’t move from her spot, he rose to his feet. She flinched.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he said softly. 

He wore all black, the only color was the white skull painted on the front of his tactical vest. She thought about Matt in Daredevil’s red suit. Was she looking at Frank Castle or the Punisher right now?

“Come on,” Frank said, gesturing to the recliner. “Sit.”

Slowly, she moved to the seat and Frank sat back down on the couch. The gun remained on the table. It occurred to her the gun wasn’t for him; it was for her. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.

She lifted her gaze from the weapon to him. “I know.”

His shoulders sagged at her response.

“But why _are_ you here, Frank?” she asked.

After all, he was the one who told her to stay away from him.

“I read your article in the _Bulletin_ ,” he said. “‘What is it, to be a hero?’ By Karen Page. Nice work by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I admit, you have a way with words. ‘A hero isn’t someone living above us keeping us safe. A hero’s not a god or an idea. A hero lives here on the street, among us, with us, always here, but barely recognized. Look in the mirror and see yourself for what you truly are.’”

Now, it was Karen’s shoulders that sagged. “You memorized all that?”

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed her a newspaper clipping of her first published story. The paper wrinkled and faded as though Frank took it out daily to read over and over. She returned the piece of paper to him. The thought of her words having that kind of affect on a man like Frank Castle made the hair on her arms stand. 

“Do you still believe in what you wrote?” he asked, pocketing the story again.

“I do,” she said without missing a beat.

He nodded in silence.

“Did you ask me that because of the news we’ve been putting on the front page?” she said.

“On or off the record?” he said with a small smile.

She found herself smiling back. 

Frank sighed and spread his arms out on the couch cushions. “Honestly, it’s getting harder and harder for me to look in the damn mirror. Not because of this beautiful mug.” He motioned to his injured face. “But because I don’t see myself looking back at me anymore.”

“Who do you see?” Karen asked softly.

Frank turned his gaze away from her. “My wife. My kids.” He paused. “You.”

She blinked. “Me?”

His gaze fell on her again. “You believed in me when no one else did. That’s something I’m never going to forget.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me, Karen, am I—am I still dead to you?”

Because he killed the Colonel, the Irish inside the warehouse, the Detroit bikers—and she knew he wasn’t going to stop there. 

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes lowered. “I see.”

“Frank Castle is dead,” she continued. “But not the Punisher.”

His eyes darted back to her face, searching for an explanation. 

“The Punisher lives here on the street, among us, with us.” She reached over and took his hand into hers. “Look in the mirror.”

With a small smile, Frank squeezed her hand. He stood again, and she moved with him, their hands still entwined. 

“I should go,” he said.

“Stay.” Karen placed her other hand over the one she was already holding. “Please.”

An hour later, Frank was fast asleep in her bed. His jacket hung on her closet door along with the Punisher’s vest, the skull watching over her as she sat at her desk. The glow from the laptop illuminated the room. With a glass of whiskey next to her, she stared at the blank Word document.

A moment later, she typed: _Is Frank Castle alive?_

She took a sip of whiskey and turned to Frank. She expected to hear feverish nightmares slip through his lips, his unconscious mind haunted by his past and with his actions; instead, the only sound coming from him was his steady, peaceful breathing.

Karen put down her glass and walked into the living room. She returned to her desk holding the picture from St. Patrick’s Day. She traced the faces of the people inside the photo and set the frame next to the computer. 

The cursor blinked at the end of the question she had just typed, waiting for her answer. She poised her fingers over the keyboard and began to type.

_Frank Castle is dead. But that depends on your definition of death. Sometimes, death isn’t the end. Sometimes, death is only the beginning. A transformation. A shedding of the old and the start of something new. Sometimes, death is necessary if we want to move on. I’m not talking about the afterlife. I’m talking about this life._

_Frank Castle had to die in order to move on in this life._

She stopped and glanced at the picture that had survived. She missed those people inside the photo, but the three of them were completely new people now.

_When you think about it, many things in our own lives had to die in order for us to move on. The kind of decisions we make. The relationships we form. Sometimes, they had to die in order for us to grow again. And sometimes, from that growth, the things that died return stronger than ever._

Frank slept the entire night in her bed. He was still there in the morning as Karen got ready for work. She didn’t wake him. Instead, she printed out her story and left him a copy. He’d be the first one to read it. 

When she turned in the story to Ellison at the office, he read it in front of her, his expression blank. 

“Well?” she asked when he finished.

“Ben would be proud of you,” he said.

She smiled. 

“I’m proud of you,” he added.

Her smile widened. “Thanks, Ellison.”

“You’re still getting printed on page eleven.”

“Fine by me.”

After work, she called Foggy to make plans to grab drinks at Josie’s later that week. He accepted without any hesitation.

“Have you heard from Matt lately?” he asked.

She frowned. “No. You?”

“No.” He didn’t attempt to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she quickly said.

Foggy was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They said their good-byes. Karen scrolled through her contacts for Matt’s name, her finger hovering over the call button. All she had to do was touch the screen. Instead, she let the phone go dark.

When she got home, Frank was gone, along with his jacket, vest, and her story. The only thing he left behind was the gun on the coffee table. Before she went to bed, she tucked it underneath her mattress.

It was almost two in the morning when she reached for the gun again and pointed it to the dark figure standing in her room.

“Whoa. It’s me,” said the deep voice. 

“Damn it, Frank.” She lowered the weapon and turned on the lamp on her nightstand. He stood at the foot of her bed, wearing the same attire from last night. “What are you doing back here?”

“I’m glad to see you’re putting the gun to use,” he said.

“Answer my question.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Join the club.” He raised her bottle of whiskey and two glasses he had taken from her kitchen cabinet. 

Moments later, she and Frank were sitting on her bedroom floor with the taste of whiskey dancing on their tongues. 

“You haven’t said anything about my latest story,” Karen said.

“I didn’t know you valued my opinion so much.” He smiled behind his glass as he finished another drink.

“Well, you did inspire it.”

He tilted his head back. “‘Frank Castle is dead...death isn’t the end...death is only the beginning.’” He looked at her, eyes dark. “Did I get that right?”

“Did I?” 

He bit his bottom lip, studying her face in the dim light. “Yeah, yeah, you did.”

Karen’s cheeks warmed. She didn’t know if it was from the alcohol, her lack of sleep, or the man sitting across from her. But when Frank inched closer to her, she found her source. Electric heat traveled throughout the rest of her body. 

“Whatever happened between you and the lawyer? Murdock?” he asked.

She leaned back, the question catching her off guard. “What?”

“You didn’t listen to my advice, did you?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“You figured it was too hard, too scary, too messy.” His voice dropped to a dangerous decibel. “Too painful.”

“Shut up,” she snapped.

Karen brought her knees to her chest, pressing her mouth to her pajama bottoms. Frank had no right. He didn’t even know the entire story.

“Hey, if you get to analyze my life and plaster it across your damn newspaper, then you shouldn’t mind if I say a few words about yours.” Frank poured himself another drink. “I think this is the first time you can’t run away from your problems. You see, in the past, you were used to taking off when things got tough. Maybe that’s how you ended up here in New York. You didn’t want to get hurt. You didn’t want to feel betrayed. Hell, you didn’t want to feel anything.” He threw back the drink, finishing it in one gulp. “You run away and you never look back, but things changed. You found something worth staying for. That old Karen Page, the one who used to just take off, she’s dead and buried. The Karen Page that came back to this life doesn’t run away anymore.” He stared at her as the temperature rose beneath her hot skin. “Did I get that right?”

She lowered her knees, her legs brushing against Frank’s. “Yeah, yeah, you did.”

Before she knew it, Frank grabbed her, settling her on his lap. She straddled his waist as his arms wrapped tightly around her frame. Her arms hooked around his neck, and she gazed into the same eyes that many, many dead men had looked into as they took their last breath. 

They stayed locked in that position for what seemed like an eternity, just holding each other, studying the other one’s face. Karen caught a glimpse of the husband, the father, the Marine and war hero. She blinked, and all of that vanished. She lowered her mouth and gave Frank a soft kiss. Too soft. He responded with a groan. 

“You aren’t going to hurt me,” he said.

Karen kissed him again, this time harder, deeper. She tasted whiskey and mint; she smelled salt and sweat. She ran her fingers over his short hair strands before settling her hands over the Punisher skull in between them. She pushed herself away and stared at the image that was meant to strike fear in others. Not her. Instead, she removed the vest, sliding it over Frank’s head. She could feel how much Frank wanted her, how hard he was, but neither one of them made the next move.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

He brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His warm, heavy hand rested on her shoulder as he waited for her to continue. 

“When I look in the mirror,” she paused as tears formed in her eyes, “when I look in the mirror, I don’t see you, not like how you see me.”

Frank wiped the tears from her cheek with his callous fingers. “You see him.”

“Yeah.” She exhaled, the knot that had been stuck inside her for a month now, suddenly unraveled. 

“Then, answer me this. Is Karen Page alive?”

Like Frank Castle, she had to go through her own metamorphosis. Karen Page was dead, but the one who survived, the one who came back to life, had returned stronger than ever.

She nodded, and Frank offered her a small smile.

“Then, you know what to do,” he said. “You have to forgive him.”

Frank untangled himself from her and helped her to her feet. She tugged on his hand and led him to her bed. He followed. She folded herself into his side, resting her head on his shoulder, and fell asleep to the sound of Frank’s steady, peaceful breathing. 

The next morning, she woke up alone. She licked her lips and tasted faintly whiskey and mint. When she made it into the office, Ellison announced Daredevil was making his return to the front page. She didn’t tell her boss it was because the Punisher had been spending the night at her place for the past two days. 

As she logged into her computer and checked her emails, she was stunned to see the number of new messages waiting for her. All of them in response to “Is Frank Castle alive?” Many of them offered their own theories if the Punisher was truly back from the dead. Others cursed her for even implying that such a monster was still roaming the streets. But there were others that thanked her for writing such a powerful piece.

“I understand you,” said one reader. “I had to die in order to live again too.”

Karen didn’t know how many more deaths she had to go through or how many more lives she had left, but she knew who she wanted to spend the rest of this one with. 

She stood on the other side of Matt’s door, her hand raised, ready and not ready to knock. 

_The Karen Page that came back to this life doesn’t run away anymore._

The door suddenly opened. Matt greeted her, dressed in sweats, his face bare, free of the sunglasses. How did he know—then, she felt how hard her heart was beating. It probably sounded like a thunderstorm to Matt’s ears. 

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course.” He motioned for her to enter.

She walked into his apartment, her nerves on edge, her palms sweaty. She set her bag down and turned to Matt. “Listen, the reason why I’m here is because—”

Matt cut her off with a kiss. He didn’t waste any time embracing her and cupping her face in between his hands. When he pulled away, she was left gasping for air like that night on her stoop. He kissed her again, slowly, smiling against her mouth. 

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.” She kept their foreheads pressed together. “The reason why I’m here, Matt, is because I forgive you. I forgive you because I love you—”

“Karen, I—”

She touched her fingers to his lips. “I love you, and I need you to forgive me.”

His brows knitted. “For what?”

She guided them to the couch and told him everything. Her brother. Ben. Wesley. Frank. 

Matt sat there, listening and processing. When she was done, he asked, “What do you want me to say, Karen?”

“That we can move on together in this new life.” She was risking everything in this request. If Matt turned her away now, it meant Frank was wrong. It meant she was wrong.

“Move on? Like in your story?” Matt asked.

“You read it?”

“I have someone at the library read your stories for me,” he said. “I haven’t missed any yet. You were right to turn down my suggestion on law school, Karen. Your words aren’t meant for a court room. They’re meant to heal, show compassion. I can learn from your example.”

“So, does that mean...”

“I forgive you.” He interlaced their fingers. “And I love you.”

In that moment, Karen realized she didn’t need to look in the mirror to see Matt. He was right there in front of her. Their mouths met again as Matt lowered her down on the couch. She grabbed him with both hands and didn’t let go.

Daredevil was going to take the night off. 

The Punisher could have the front page tomorrow. Let him be the hero. 

THE END


End file.
